


PUT ME ON A PEDESTAL ( and i'll only disappoint )

by joelhole



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Loves Poe and Nothing Hurts, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pretty Boy Pilots and Their Dumb Space Adventures, Purple Prose, Rapier Squadron, Recovery, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joelhole/pseuds/joelhole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They say the force can do terrible things to your mind."</p><p>Poe wakes and the Resistance acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PUT ME ON A PEDESTAL ( and i'll only disappoint )

**Author's Note:**

> What originally started as a test to get me into a finn/poe headspace went horribly, horribly awry and I ended up with this mess. Enjoy. Novelization inspired but liberties and deviations have been taken.
> 
> To those who see this update and are wondering about my shiphaus fic - yes, I am working on the next chapter! The reason this fic even exists is because I needed to get my writing chops warmed up again. Steal Away has always been a monster to edit, though, which is why I'm playing this fic fast and loose, so that I can spend all my real energy on SA. Thanks for your patience darlings.

He dreams in a wash of color.  
  
It's a familiar setting; strokes of dire red that by shouts concern, calls for caution but instead invites a sense of warmth, the comforting glaze of bronze fading in and out, encompassing an elusive other from the forefront of his mind. Its teasing, playfully hinting at the idea of something more without revealing its hand.  
  
And there is something there, something urgent and he knows - he knows -  
  
He's lost. Has been and will be, distracted by the lure of deep, unending blue tinged violet as anything else is dismissed, forever gone to the musings of a tired soul. Blue, limitless and the color of home and heart, even if the specifics escape him. For all the struggle for his thoughts to resurface, to wade through the sticky syrup of colors alight and persistent, he knows this place now hidden from his dreams - _Tikal_ says a whisper of home, a reassuring caress immediately overlooked – knows it had always been there, strokes that should be nothingness but instead form an abstract sense of stability, of enduring force.  
  
Hope is there, passing just beneath recognition, bereft of thought he still feels it in confident technicolor. Greens dark woven into, and there's a farm somewhere, buried under strokes of burnt umber and the glistening frailty of silver , the sheen of a metallic heart.  
  
Red, looped in the fading warmth of a two sunned sky falling, calling to an end. And it gives way to a gap – a crevice that doesn't belong. Bleak, empty, splitting color apart as shades of gold bleed crimson. Here lies his void of thought, a small crack in his mind that fills a cavern with its daunting otherness.  
  
He dreams in color, a mind dormant in wait, using abstractions and rigidity to set at ease. He dreams in life, a fighting contrast of celebration and grief, the taste of intermittent and failing peace woven in flights of fancy. Fear and failure twists grooves into his stomach and he can't remember what it is he thinks, what words so urgently try to break through his subconscious, washed red and blue and every color in between and yet.  
  
He wakes to black.

 

A fatalistic dread bled black, rooted to him without form, the words ' _It was all in vain_ ' a weight sitting heavy and bitter on his tongue and a squeezing force within his chest.  
  
Wakes and there's a sharp, insistent hurt through his being. He recognizes it, a haunting presence that taunted him, following from his surface dreams even into this muddled wakefulness. It is a physical throbbing, thrumming preventing thoughts from connecting, a pain fighting for top billing competing with the sting of sand - where did all of this sand come from - in open abrasions, the bruising upon bruising staked through the very layers of his skin. The nights chill soaked through his simple tunic, a body unprepared for this bleak and temperate night.  
  
He's lost, drifting, staring into the great moon sat over head and thinks ' _I never thought I'd see this again'_ but, that's not right. The thought falls flat and yes, there's an aching sense of loss in his head, shifting ideas of resignation laid dormant but, that not the whole truth. His heart beats steady, a consistent thrum in his ears, loud in the stillness around him, echoed only by the determination pumping steady through his blood.

He's alive.  
  
The words startle him, cause him to open his eyes – when had they fallen shut? - in confusion. I'm alive. The thought dances, bright with a fledgling giddiness building in his chest. But, ad adrenaline inducing as the words are, they stump him too. His hurts, numb in the face of this chasm of thought; he knows so much but can remember so little. Should he not be? His lungs fill with the stagnant air around him, the remnants of ash and turmoil coating his throat and nose with the sour taste of passed danger and... and this all confuses him, an intertwining notion of all is well battling the dark, intrinsic sense that nothing can be the same.  
  
But he's alive, and as little it is to go on, it's a start.  
  
Sitting up, he aches. It's a physical wound that holds him in the moment as he catalogs this confounding reality. He's a pilot. He knows this, can feel the call to action deep seeded through to his bones, and doesn't need to see the burnt and scattered remains of an airship around him to recognized it. He just wishes he could remember _who_ he is. Much like the destroyed remnants already half buried into the sand around him, his clothing holds no clues to where's, how's, or what's or why's his heart so desperately seeks to realize - to remember. A thin olive green tunic, tattered sleeves rolled at his elbow, useless in the face of the bleak desert night; worn and creased leather pants tightly molded to his legs, nothing else save for an empty holster attached to his belt loops.  
  
It comes back to him at first a small trickle of words, unattached and incoherent, falling to the forefront of his mind. _TIE-fighter_ , describing the black carcass laid to rest behind him; _Jakku_ , the planet which has become his sanctuary. He walks, a impatient stagger forward, without direction and he sees in flashes: dark curls falling plastered to dimpled skin, the flashing lights of galaxies flashing past a dimly lit cockpit.  
  
Poe. Poe Dameron is his name.  
  
As surely as he remembers, what started as a trickle of information returning to its home becomes a fissure, small cracks cascading to a fortitude of information. Finn, a one-time enemy, joined forces through joint need, a potential ally against the First Order.  
  
BB-8, his friend and confidant, a young spirit written into circuitry and wiring sent by Poe himself an undue task, asking so much of a force so small to hold the fate of entire galaxies; this was Poe's failure. His failing.  
  
"Damn," Poe grits his teeth, falling to a knee as he fights through a new wave of pain. He doesn't know how long he's been planet-side; time has ceased to hold any real value. He knows he was taken, captured by the First Order but not how long they had help him captive before the escape.  
  
He knows how thinly he managed to crash land the borrowed fighter before being ejected from the fiery remains only to lose consciousness upon impact.  
  
The crash site is far behind him now, but whether he has been walking minutes or hours he cannot hope to tell, not with his bleary eyesight nor throbbing headache. Only the tightness of his stomach, the parched cracking of his mouth with each exhale hold any clue to the passage of time, although he could also attribute such conventions to the biome than the mere passage of time.

Poe staggers onto both feet once more, allows himself a brief moment to steady, then trudges forward once more. "Just my luck," he mutters, barely more than an exhale, and the words echo through the empty hills around him, a sea of sand with only him to occupy it. He can't help the wry grin framed by cracked lips. _Just my luck_ , he thinks again and _thank the force Iolo isn't here_. Imagining his best friend and long time comrade who has seen him during his lows, has been with him through every bruise and damage; if Iolo Arana saw him now he'd be giddy and taunting. Undignified, so starkly contrasting the Poe Dameron the Reistance has come to know, the 'poster boy' his friends so constantly teased was not here, taken a leave of absence leaving only a desperate man in its wake. Someone able to rouse entire squadrons at a time, conquered by _sand_ of all things.

 He'd never live this down.

Another exhale, the tenor of his voice both swallowed and amplified by the monotony of the landscape around him. There's a stillness around him, the air and sand frozen in place broken only by him, thrumming with vigor, with renewed purpose while standing at the precipice of capability.

Pushing down all thought of the mission, of BB-8 and the numerous fates that could have befallen his lost friend – and that's a hilarious notion, calling another lost while he himself couldn't tell one direction from another, not with skies so endless and empty – he pushes down the fear and focuses instead on the certainties. The reassurance of his friends and comrades, who were the constants in his life. They'll never let me live this down, and he was glad. He knows there's a family he can go home to. His mother long dead, his father with his self imposed absence; his fellow fighters have become he closer to himself than Poe's own blood.

When salvation arrives, it's brought into existence with the rising sun, a low hum of life interrupting the numbing nothingness that had existed previously. The noise barely registers before Poe is throwing himself into action, arms waving and noises bouncing through the dunes though the words he's shouting hold no register. For all he knows this is his only chance, _I cant fail in this too_ , and hes thrown himself in the way of an incoming land skiff.

–-

 

The General is distracted.

 

Considering she was in charge of the sole military force engaging and inhibiting the threat of the First Order from the entire galaxy, Wexley could pardon her inattention, hell, he could understand it. But the fact remains that she had requested his audience and had yet to reveal the reason for the impromptu meeting. Instead she stands, gazing past the man with her worries written into the creases of her forehead, into the squint of her eyes as she looked through the holographic display before them. Moreso than all else, that she hadn't berated him for his rumpled appearance yet today was, well, that was a call for alarm.

Wexley couldn't remember a day in the thirteen years of his service to their cause where she hadn't griped over his lack of self-maintenance. “Bad influence” she would accuse for a man of his standing, chagrined but fond, always fond. He merely had to point a calloused finger at his reckless, foolish, and yet nothing short of exemplary squadron commander to get her soft laugh, agreeing.

Poe Dameron, while an extremely rare type of man, was hardly one to set any normative standards, instead instilling a rogue set of ideals into every pilot under his command. Wexley knows the General wouldn't have it any other way.

The General was stewing in some sort of problem, and Wexley had little doubt it was above his purview. If it had anything to do with Poe Dameron and Wexley would bet his rations from the next month that it did, the captain knew little of what it could be. His commander, his friend, had left the station on a mission that was strictly need-to-know just a few weeks prior. Besides the General herself, there was a scant few who were privy to the details of this assignment, which was unusual at best. The resistance was strong because of those who composed it, a ragtag group supported only by the shoulders of their fellow fighters. To send their undisputed best and brightest on a mission by himself was understandable because this was Poe.

One needn't see the man take to the air for more than five minutes without realizing that was where he belonged. Everything else, and there was so much more to the man than his aerial ability, was just a joyous extra; Poe is the type of man who could light up a room just by stepping into it, a man who could rally entire forces, veteran soldiers and green recruits alike with a few simple inspired, heart-felt words. Poe Dameron was a shining example that those in the resistance followed as surely as the stars hung in the sky.

But with two weeks without any sort of contact following a solo mission that had their leader, their general, so obviously ill at ease, Wexley couldn't help but wonder if the man he so admired had taken on more than he should be expected to handle.

Sighing, the captain turns to the only other occupant of the room, meeting her brown eyes glinting with what could only be purpose. Kaydel Ko was no stranger to Wexley; despite being only a junior controller new to the resistance forces, the woman had more than proved her skill in handling the spiraling ranks of the starfighter squadrons. She ended up directing Blue Squadron, more often than not, so Wexley had been at the behest of the young woman many times. Her intelligence and analysis had saved him and his comrades lives numerous times, though she was the sort who would dismiss such praise as a result of her role.

She was someone Wexley respected, and it was a respect that others in their forces reflected, including their General.

There's a shift in the air, a centering of focus that had previously been absent. Kaydel lingers for a moment, long enough to raise one of her thin yellow eyebrows at the pilot across from her before shifting her attention to the older woman. Leia Organa had a weight of presence that Wexley could only assume was inherit to one of her noble heritage, but it was a uncompromising strength of position that lingered true even after her abdication of the throne. “There's been a change in the Force.” Leia announces at last, her voice rough belying the clear and certainty layered within. Even as Wexley can feel the dumbfounded widening of his eyes, her statement leaves no doubt.

Man, when he was awoken at the early hours of dawn, summoned to a meeting with their General he knew the ensuing conversation would be of a certain importance – but for something of this much gravitas he needed at least three cups of coffee before he could even _attempt_ to digest what he was hearing.

“With all due respect, ma'am,” he starts because if the water cooler gossip could be taken as true, this woman's brother was the last true Jedi to survive in all the galaxies. Those were toes he wanted in no way to step on.

Even if she was currently referring to a mystical force known only in legend.

“What does the force have to do with our current situation?” Leia sighs and Wexley can't help but feel like he should be offended. For she seems entirely prepared for his line of questioning and the captain hardly thinks himself so predictable, especially when dealing with such notions of lunacy. He thinks it was rationally forgiven for him to instill _some_ amount practicality in the face of myth.

“Everything,” The General murmurs, her lips twisting to the side in a grim semblance of a smirk. “Maybe nothing. The force has remained dormant for many years.”

Wexley can fill his eyebrow begin to twitch, so much more casting away ambiguities. “Until now?”

“Until now.” Leia crosses her arms in front of her chest, leaning back against a console as she addresses him. For all the severity of her words, she seems utterly casual, Wexley would be pressed to say laid-back if he didn't know that the General didn't own a single indolent bone in her body. Maybe the force's so called shift was what he needed to understand what was going on through this woman's mind. “The First Order is moving,” she continues at last. “And I don't want to be caught unawares when they catch up to us.”

“You worry that they'll learn about D'Qar.” Keydel finally speaks up from her spot at the Genral's elbow. Her fingers are wrapped around a strand of blonde hair, twisting it from where it had fallen loose from its usual place in the braided buns on either side of her head. To anyone else it would look like a nervous habit, betraying the girl's nerves at such a thought. But Wexley could recognize the strength in the set of her shoulders, the glittering intelligence dancing within her eyes; He would confidently place any number of credits that the controller was already strategizing any number of fail-safes should such a situation occur. "With Poe gone, sending our best reconnaissance agent would be a huge misstep."

Leia nods at her faithful shadow, and Kaydel takes it as the intended permission to continue. Not that she would allow to be derailed even by their esteemed reader when she was in her element.

She turns bodily to Wexley, and he straightens into a ready stance without concious thought. She locks onto the Captain before her with a single-minded focus, eyes square, face set and for all the stars written into her eyes there was nothing to reveal her depth of thought nor complexity of mind. If not for her hands, one still twisted, tangled into the strand of pale hair on her shoulder, the other clenched tight, fisted at her sides, Wexley would have thought her to be unaffected by the situation at hand. Distress though – that any lesser officer would feel, that no doubt would make way through the ranks as word got out about the coming storm – distress didn't give Kaydel Ko pause. Her face absolute, she continues, "We need to grasp the full extent of the situation, but in the absence of black squadron's leadership we will be leaning heavily on the strength of blue squadron."

Wexley heaves a sigh of his own; it's not difficult to read between the lines. “You know, I didn't sign up as Blue-One for a reason.”

“And until we can find a proper candidate for the position, it's a role that needs to be filled.”

Wexley opens his mouth to retort; he's sure as hell not going to be roped into being substitute leader for the corps while their true commanding officer was out having some action-filled romp in who-knows-what backwater planet his super secret mission had taken him. Not when both Leia and Kaydel knew his talents were better suited elsewhere. Its then that Major Brance bursts into the room, sending an attendent droid rocking out of the way. He catches sight of the General and bounces forward, thrusting a document forward. He's breathing heavily, and Wrexley can't decide if its from the exertion because surely he ran all the way here from the transmission hub, or if its a physical reflection of the turmoil thrashing in his eyes.

“General,” he barely manages between each deep intake of breath. “Priority One transmission from Jakku - ”

She raises her hand, stopping him as she reads the encryption for herself. Wexley wants nothing more than to ask what could possibly happen in a neutral planet so isolated from the matters of First Order and Resistance, let alone what could happen to inspire such a sense of urgency, but Leia doesn't leave him in the dark for long.

“Lor San Tekka is dead.” And, that was a name he hadn't heard since his parents reminisced about times in need of the rebel forces. A name that that inspired as much legend as the fantastical force and last-remaining Jedi so previously ensnared into their debate. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place without realizing they were missing to begin with, Wexley finally began to understand. It doesn't keep his heart from free falling down to his stomach when the General finally looks up from the missive, face as grim as it had been when the Captain first entered the room.

“And what of Poe Dameron?”

\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading darlings.   
> <3<3


End file.
